The Nymph and the Necromancer
by The Char
Summary: Short and sad FrUK AU fic.


((Short fic based of the worst case scenario in a roleplay AU. Some notes:

Arthur is a notorious necromancer and practicer of the dark arts. Currently wanted by the Council of High Wizards.

Francis is a nymph who left his glade. (One of the highest treason amongst his kind, punished by imprisonment if he were to return.)

They have been travelling together for quite a while before the main events of the fic.

About 2000 words

Be warned that this fic might be a little bit sad.))

* * *

The first time Arthur cried was when he climbed out of Hell. Born of a human whore, raised a human in the Capital of a land where the demons reigned, where you could trust no one, not even family, where everything has a price - one that was hardly ever worth paying. Only the strongest are able to survive, emotions are used to convince those foolish enough to believe in their value. It took years of practice, study, contracts, an affinity for magic and a whole lot of stupid bravery to even dare to make the trip.

But he had succeeded. There he stood in the forest, a young adult, not even knowing there was such a thing as air without the smell of sulphur and death. Birds, squirrels, harmless forest creatures, all going their merry way as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. There he slumped against a tree, exhausted, wounded, crying and never in his whole life as happy as he was then. Hoping that he might listen to the gentle wind and the chirping of the birds for the rest of his life.

He didn't move from the spot for days, afraid that that perfect glade might turn out be an illusion.

* * *

Francis meets Arthur for the first time in his glade, while the other nymphs are away. Arthur is different from the other humans they caught, he threatens to burn him, raise his corpse and burn him again if he does not release him. He teases, they quabble, and Francis lets him go.

The encounter is what awakens his curiousity in humans. Urges him to watch them, collect what they leave behind. What makes him decide to heal a wary wanderer that passes by his glade. His gratitude is what makes him decide to leave his glade. Commit the ultimate betrayal to his kind. And follow his fascination.

He meets Arthur again when he took up work as a nurse in a local hospital, living peacefully and secretly amongst the humans. When Arthur finds trouble, he follows him, only out of curiousity at first.

* * *

You don't let people in. In Hell they hurt you, exploit you. If something is offered without asking anything in return, you know you have to be most wary. It means it will harm you more later.

* * *

_"Then I'll stay with you."_

_"And what do you want in return?"_

_"Nothing."_

_"You lie."  
_

* * *

The ground is rough where they force him to his knees, scraping the far too thin skin, pale and fragile from years of dabbling in the forbidden dark arts. There's five of them to keep him constrained, and he's quite certain that he could take every single one of them if it weren't for the magic constraints shackling his wrists. Not even one of the high wizards is present to oversee the execution of his punishment, or perhaps they are, out of sight. Arthur can't be certain, not with his abilities repressed this way, his mind clouded and heavy, but much too aware of what is about to happen.

His stomach churns when he sees the nymph led forwards, held by those of his own kind. He pleads to them, but his words are lost in the chanting, the sounds of the forest and the persistent pounding of Arthur's heart. If only he did not have to see what is about to happen next, hoping that the sounds will drown out the experience, make it less real somehow. One of the wizards accompanying him picks up his chin, tilts his face to see and the moment Arthur's eyes lock he can't take them of his face any longer.

Francis does not look like he should. Not like he met him, like he remembers him. His hair looks wilted and his skin has acquired a dull grey sheen, taking it's usual vibrance. But the worst is the fear, unmistakable and heartbreaking. When their eyes meet a sadness seems to wash over him, between the fear there is no anger, perhaps sadness, but none of the rightful hatred that should be there. During all those years he had never listened.

When it starts, Francis does not scream, his mouth is agape and his eyes flash between Arthur and the roots that slowly wrap around his legs, merging with his skin, though not as smooth as Arthur had seen him do many times before. There's no friendly forest magic, no illusions, it's awfully permanent.

The reality brings Arthur to scream, and Francis' eyes widen briefly, watching him. There's something there, but he can not tell, fear, surprise, hatred, judging perhaps? No, till the end he does not see any hate in his eyes, only sadness. Arthur shouts again, his name, over and over, though promises are as stuck in his throat as he is to his spot.

Wood has spread up to Francis' chest, going faster now, stretching taller from the ground, branches already parting from the trunk in places. Elevated, Arthur's words seem unclear, but despite the fear and desperation, something soothes his mind.

Arthur watches his eyes close, try to read the last words on his parted lips through blurry eyes. The tree keeps growing, tall, even after Francis has disappeared from sight, but they do not force him to keep watching. Somewhere, he registers the shackles weakening, whispered threats against his ears, but his mind has dulled.

It is the second time he cries.

He does not know for how long he does, but when he wakes up, he feels the warm summer breeze on his skin. Above him looms the tall tree, standing proud and serene. The cheerful chirping coming from the canopy above seems to be mocking him.

* * *

The tree stands out, even in the forest. Alone in the middle of the glade, on a small island, separated from the rest of the forest by a shallow ring of water. It doesn't take long till the branches are filled with birds and other life.

Arthur visits as often as he can, making promises that he'll find a way to take him out. The frayed ends of his cape become drenched in the water when he kneels in front of the tree. He speaks, loud, the guilt in his voice only hidden by a forced, thin layer of confidence. Guilt, for the wrongful punishment that was inflicted on the other. The other, who till the end never did end up asking something in return. If it weren't for his deeds, Francis would have never been led to those of his kind.

The Council of High Wizards had known that any practical punishment would be ineffective. Of course, they had to do something once they caught him. Arthur had dabbled in far too many dark and forbidden arts, necromancy amongst them, to let him off easy. He was firmly placed amongst those for whom death was too easy an punishment. But torture, curses, deprivation, even death are all of little significance to those who are born and raised in Hell itself. In the end, they had settled upon confined banishment if he'd ever be caught. And caught he would be.

When Arthur was led to his trial, they were pleasantly surprised to find that the reputable necromancer had an unexpected side. Something, one thing, to care deeply for, not usual amongst those from Hell. That had made the punishment a lot easier to decide.

When Arthur visits always stays over night, sleeping, crying, half expecting to be woken by Francis, comforted, able to kick the much to clingy nymph off in a huff. He never is.

* * *

He is never bothered by the other nymphs of the forest. They are afraid. Arthur would not have hesitated to burn them all down if it did not mean endangering that one important tree. At close range they are smart enough to know they would not be so lucky. His power is still there, unsealed, but he wouldn't step out of line _now_. Not when the threats still echo in his thoughts.

_They would burn him. Not even one mistake._

No one stops him from visiting. No one stops him from looking for a way to reverse the spell. Perhaps they know his research is futile. It's not trouble. Arthur is harmless distracted, kept docile. They know there'd be more trouble if that was not the case.

* * *

_"I'm still searching, I heard there was a witch who specialized in forest magic in the Northern area, hidden."_

When he searches for help, he finds little. Some are wary of the wizard so closely tracked by the Council, with his reputation. Some he has crossed before, during all those decades, and are less than open to the idea of assistance.

_"I visited, but there was nobody there. I'll track her down though. Soon. _

_Soon. _

_Soon."_

* * *

_"Look, I brought lunch again. I'm eating, like you always nagged me to."_

Francis can hear him, see him. But not move, or speak to him. He would shout out to him at first, talk or whisper, hoping that his words will carry through. But Arthur never hears. Francis watches him break down. If he had been eating, he does not look any healthier than he did in life. Too thin, unhealthy, pale and with dark circles under his eyes. He looks tired, and Francis worries if the nightmares have gotten worse.

He's sure that he has started drinking again, though he never does it when he visits Francis. Francis never liked it when he did.

His voice breaks often when he speaks, sometimes his sentence break off in the middle of words, phrases and becomes incoherent. Francis sees him cry, fingers ripping the ground, but always very careful when he touches his bark, as if he's afraid of breaking him, losing him again. He always apologizes when he composes himself.

He apologizes a lot. Especially when evening comes and his voice is hoarse from crying and talking. There's always a forced smile when he visits, hiding bad news, futility, though he never says so.

His fingers press against the confines of his tree, so close to him, but separated, on a completely different plane. Francis too, chokes back his tears. There is no way for him to reach out, comfort him, touch him or hold him in his arms once more. No way to tell him he forgives him. That he does not want to see him like this each time.

That he still loves him.

_"I'm not sure if-"_

Francis knows that Arthur has doubts, about saving him -the possibility thereof-, about whether Francis is even still there. But whenever he voices them, he chokes, and apologizes for the thoughts.

But Francis does know that it is unlikely. Arthur could not even heal a simple wound, his magic is destructive, dark, but holds no affinity to restoration, nature, his salvation. Seeing all spells or circles fizzle ineffectively under Arthur's fingertips, he's sure that Arthur knows it too.

* * *

Years pass, come wind or rain, storm or weather, but Arthur keeps returning. Less frequently, when he travels the world, but surely each time. He talks to Francis each time. One sided conversations. Of how he can grow flowers, restore life. Though he does not mention he can only for a short time, before the flowers wilt. Life does not come from his fingers, having grown so accustomed to death.

He doesn't know if Francis hears him. If Francis was ever there. Sometimes he feels mad, laughs, the coughs and he chokes on his tears, he laughs, again, a sad laugh that chills the air.

He talks, talks, waiting for a response, ears straining against the sounds of the forest that he's grown to hate; as they could obstruct any reply; as they remind him of the sound he does not hear any longer. He yells at the birds, angrily, desperately, then talks again, smile broken in the hopes that something, somewhere is still watching. Something with more hope than him.

But he does not give up. But he grows afraid of the day that he might.

For now he keeps going. He still has time. Eternity if necessary.


End file.
